


With our minds and pockets full of dust

by 35391291



Series: The sound of the sea [4]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Found Family, Gen, M/M, Magic, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sentient Nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 14:31:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13789713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: There is something new here, something bright.A story about birds, stars, sleep and the sea. And especially, about belonging.





	With our minds and pockets full of dust

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, if you combine Charles Bukowski, beer and post-punk feels, you get something like this story!

What is between the star and the sea?  
A bird as bright as a bird can be  
What is between the bird and me?  
Only a star, only the sea  
Only a star, only the sea

\- The Waterboys: [The star and the sea](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ngUYzXdjMTk).

*

There's only a star, only the sea. And the sea has a new colour now. Like sunset, like pain. There's always a storm within him, brewing, trying to get out. But he won't let anyone see it. 

The sky opens, and he stands by the uproar of the sea. It's a sort of gamble, and it's tempting. Will he give it up? Maybe. But not today. Today, he will hide his dusty hands. And he will stay here.

Yes, he will stay. Why? Maybe because he knows what it's like, to be a stranger. Once, he had a name, a spell or two, and little else. No one saw him. These days, he has slightly more. It should be enough, and it is. And he doesn't want to lose it. 

He doesn't want to let go.

*

He remembers a thread, a needle. Cobblestones and mud. Feathers bright and black and blue, like ink. And now, there's this rain on his face, again, Soft and tired, like fingertips. Like heartache.

There was a dream of a rope around his throat. A dream of not being anyone anymore, of not being here. Now, there is no black cloud anymore. And he is safe. He knows it. 

But what if he sleeps? What if he truly sleeps, and it all fades away? If he closes his eyes, it's all gone. It's like walking into a mirror. Like being trapped in the glass, all its little splinters and tears keeping him _there_. They can make him disappear, and he doesn't want that. If he becomes invisible, he has nothing. He goes back to the start, back to when no one could read him. 

(If he closes his eyes, the feathers get out, and he can't. No, he can't.)

No, he can't sleep. The world shifts and it moves. It changes. The words and the world run around and fly around. The smoke leaves his mouth and surrounds him. And he can't get away, and it won't let him rest. It won't let him be.

This is how it goes. This is how it _is_. The earth says no. And the wind says _no_ , people like him can't believe in anything. Not today. Not anymore.

*

He needs to be seen. He will try anything. A spell. A drink or two. Anything to make it go away.

He should be ashamed.

But he has to be sharp. So, he doesn't sleep. He sits up and talks with Hannah. She doesn't sleep much either. So, they drink. And they start to understand each other, in silence. Hannah is the toughest person he has ever known. Tougher than him, for sure. Tougher than John. Tougher than anyone. She is strong, like the sun, like a loaded gun. Like the moor they left behind and the sea they've found. She knows what it's like, to feel that empty space within. But she doesn't walk away. And she looks at him, as if she knew his thoughts. As if she knew everything.

_Is that so bad? Why is that so bad? Maybe it's because you can't sleep. Maybe that's why._ She is hard and sharp, but she is honest. She _is_. She never cries. Neither does he. Not anymore. But she knows that he is in there, somewhere. And she might go, and he can't have that.

He would pray, if he remembered how. How to start. How it used to be done, in feathers and smoke. How to _be_. Yes, he would pray to her, if he could. Instead, he takes the bottle from her. She smokes, and she looks at him. He hears her words, and they are almost like a song. The ravens hide in her hair. 

It should be foolish. But no, it is not. She smiles, and she knows. She _knows._

*

Sometimes, when the mood is lighter and they can forget everything for a while, he and John get drunk and happy and warm, and they call her the Cornish witch. The raven queen. Our lady of the skies. Just for a laugh. Hannah simply toasts them with her pint. Maybe smirks and gives them the finger. And Dido just laughs and laughs and laughs. This fierce, dark-clad, inked woman and her love. And her love.

And oh, how he wishes he could sleep now, now, when he's so happy. He could fade away in a good, deep mist, in this warm whiskey dream, surrounded by laughter that's loud and bright like a treasure, safe in these arms.

But he can't. And he won't. No one knows. Someone should know, at least once. Someone should remember, and say that, once, it meant something.

He doesn't sleep. But he stays. Deep down, he wants to be here. He wants to feel, for once in his life. It's not _that_ unreasonable, is it? Maybe, maybe, one of these days, he will. And only then he will sleep.

Hannah laughs at his words. It's only much, much later that he understands why.

*

The sea has a heartbeat. So does the earth, and so does the magic of the man beside him. His eyes and his fingers and his mouth, as he reads and breathes and _knows_.

He thinks he is clever. He is not. He left out all these traces, and he is caught, tethered and bound. He is taken in by the whiskey, by the cigarette smoke. That's what he keeps telling himself. But maybe he meant it. Maybe it was about time.

_And everywhere is nowhere._ And there is always a first step. Always the wheel of fortune, isn't that right? It is hiding in the sea, in the cards, in these hands. But he knows. He understands, and he remembers. His magic has a heartbeat too. A furnace, a new home. Once. Still. And maybe he can try. He can stop hiding.

Now, he never lays down at night, and instead they trade stories and spells and dreams. He is awake. Always. And John is awake, too. Is it because of him? He doesn't know. But they can be real with each other now. Only at night. Right before the dawn, they can be here. And he can say it. _You see me. You see me._ He doesn't know why. But he should have known.

He knows he can rest easy now. The book is someone else. And it's still him. And that's fine. There is writing in his heart too. It used to be bitter. It is not anymore. But he can't read it himself. He needs someone to show it to him. A mirror he can fall into, but safely, safely, this time. He still hides, but he needs someone to find him. 

He is still here. Maybe he will be free. Yes, maybe one day. But not yet, not yet.

*

They send out a prayer, out here. _True north, find me, bind me to you_. They find the thread, they hold fast and tight, they go on. They are all on fire, but they go on. Like ghosts, like the sea. Down here, out here, they belong.

And they sit together and read each other, in the dark, by the sea, every meaning in these paths of black and blue. Together, so close, so close and sharp and careful, as if they had a small, tender secret. And maybe they do.

Would he be here, otherwise? He would, because there is no such thing. They are here, and _here_ is right. It's the right place to be.

And there is nothing here, nothing but the stones and the leaves and the wind. They still remember the name he had, and the one he is supposed to have now. And it's not much, but maybe it's everything. And it's good. 

It's hard to hold back the tears, to hold back the sky. But he still doesn't cry. He closes his eyes, to look for the words. And he finds them. And they find him. They taste of alcohol and smoke and sea, and they fall slowly, like feathers. And he knows.

And he says it. He says it all. And he stays here, where he belongs.

And here is another story. A wide open road, a thread of waves and birds and stars and laughter. And yes, maybe he meant it, he meant it all. There is something new here, something bright. The sea seems to go on forever, and it doesn't hurt anymore. He cradles them close, these colours, these words. Maybe he can breathe here. Maybe he can sleep like this.


End file.
